Friday, November 4, 2011

15mins.

The chattering sounds in fifteen minutes.
The cold air striking down my spine,

chilling as the works I have to do.
What's the point of working without love?

Go ask Gibran and he'll let you know.
I am too picky for love,

it might be my reason to not be picked.
I really do love someone.

But I just don't know about love.
And as much as I need to know,

I need to breathe and eat,
and do works in this chilly,

chilly space down the building.
Where I believed my fate was.

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